


Washington Is A Freak

by Matchbox_Lights



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, Choking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:34:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27446458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Matchbox_Lights/pseuds/Matchbox_Lights
Summary: Tucker shamelessly whimpered in pain as he rolled onto his stomach and forearms, blinking blood out of his eyes. He was suddenly aware of the sound of uneven breathing, and drowsily turned his head to see -“...Wash..” Tucker breathed. Wash was crawling backwards away from him, mouth agape, and horror in his eyes. Tucker reached out pathetically, desperately, towards him.---“Please, Tucker, calm down.” Wash whispered. He sounded almost… normal… except for the thickness in his voice.“Calm down?” Tucker cried, his balled fists shuddering as he subtly backed up towards his sword. “You just tried to fucking kill me, you fucker!”
Relationships: Lavernius Tucker/Agent Washington
Comments: 10
Kudos: 45





	1. He's a freak, plain and simple.

Agent Washington is an absolute freak.

That was what Tucker kept telling himself every time he noticed Washington stalking around the base. The Freelancer had been staying at Blue Base for exactly a week, and every day Tucker made another mental note of the mans weird habits.

For one, Tucker had yet to see him take off his armor. Yesterday at four in the morning when Caboose stuck a fork in the toaster, causing the kitchen counter to burst into flames, the man came skidding into the kitchen in flannel pajamas, a long-sleeved gray shirt, and his helmet firmly on his head. The sight was so strange Tucker stopped batting the flames out with Cabooses toast to stare at Wash… who simply stared back.

His second weird habit was he seemingly never slept. Like, ever. 

Tucker didn't trust the Freelancer one bit, all Freelancers are absolute cockheads in his (correct) opinion. He stayed awake the entire night in Cabooses room with his sword in hand, and he could hear steady soft footfalls coming from Washes room. All. Night. 

Once when Tucker woke up for a piss at an ungodly hour, Wash was standing at the end of the hall… just… staring at him. The mans a fucking freak.

And, let's not forget how Agent Washington NEVER laughs. I mean, who doesn't laugh at a good "that's what she said" quip?

"Are you okay?"

Tucker flinched hard, dropping the pan he had been angrily scrubbing back into the dishwater. He glared up at Washington, who was standing awkwardly in the doorframe. He felt a sort of sick happiness seeing Wash in his armor this early in the morning, proving Tuckers mental tirade against him.

"Yeah, man" Tucker huffed as he snatched the pan out of the lukewarm, disgusting dishwater, "I'm just peachy."

He wanted to make a joke about the destroyed kitchen he still had to clean from yesterday, but frankly the idea of how much work there was to do exhausted him. Plus, the creepy fuck wouldn't laugh anyway.

"You…" Washington started weakly, then cleared his throat. "You don't seem… "just peachy," Private Tucker."

Without bothering to turn to face him, Tucker raised an eyebrow. This was the most the guy had ever spoken to him. He hadn't tried to strangle him in his sleep, yet… maybe he was trying to (finally) settle into the Blue group and stop being a massive creep.

He took a steadying breath, then chucked a sponge at the Freelancers head, who caught it with impressive agility. Wash stared down at the sponge in his hand as dirty dishwater dripped onto the scuffed, charred floor.

Tucker laughed, wishing he could see the expression on Washingtons face. In fact, he wished he could see his face regardless of expression. "Well? You think I'm going to clean this shit up all by myself?" Tucker dramatically gestured to the soot-covered walls.

The taller man slowly brought his gaze up to Tucker, which made him shudder. His discomfort must have been obvious on his expression because Washington strode over and started scrubbing at the counter.

"Why isn't Caboose helping?"

His voice sounded… almost lighthearted. Tucker was surprised to find Wash had a tone other than "tired robot."

"He's hiding in Red Base to get out of it. Trust me, I tried getting him. Sarge *literally* kicked my ass out the door. As in, his boot made contact with my hella fine bootycheeks."

Wash laughed.

Hold up - Wash… laughed. Tucker stopped his assault against the pan and stared at him, Wash had his back turned to him as he scrubbed the counter.

Tucker felt his face grow oddly warm, he had a nice laugh. No wait, that sounded gay. Tucker cleared his throat, "Man, that's the first time you've ever laughed at one of my jokes. And here I thought you were an emotionless robot."

Wash continued scrubbing, going silent for such an awkward amount of time that Tucker felt an apology bubbling in his throat.

"Why would you think that?"

Ah, back to the tired robot tone.

"Well, it's not like I've ever seen you eat. Or sleep. Or laugh. Or have a good time." Tucker forced the words to sound lighthearted, but didn't bother disguising the obvious question behind his words - the fuck is up with you?

The Freelancer went silent again. Tucker kept scrubbing the pan even though it had been clean for the past five minutes.


	2. Oh wait he likes pancakes. Do freaks like pancakes?

Tucker stifled a yawn as he shuffled into the kitchen, a quick glance at the coffeepot showed Wash had been up before him, just like he had been every day these past two weeks. 

As he poured himself a cup, his mind wandered. Wash was just starting to fit into the group, and begrudgingly Tucker found himself warming up to the solider. He even found out Wash had a sense of a humor.

A dry, sarcastic humor, but humor nonetheless.

After a long stretch that lifted his worn out, blue-gray shirt off his abdomen, he decided it was time for breakfast. God knows he wasn't letting Caboose cook after the toaster incident last week, and Tucker didn't want a hangry Caboose on his hands.

He barely paid attention as he went through the motions of making pancakes. It felt… good. Just relaxing in the morning, cooking for his teammates, not worried about Church storming in and being an ass. Not worried about Red Team having some mental breakdown and needing assistance. 

Clanking footsteps grew closer, drawing Tucker out of his thoughts. Caboose wandered in rubbing his eyes, wearing the bottom half of his blue armor and a blue tee that was arguably too big.

"Good morning Tucker! You are making pancakes!" 

He wasn't sure how to reply to that, but he hummed a response and flipped a pancake over. 

The tall boy (man? Did Caboose count as a man?) stepped closer until he was hovering over the pan, which made Tucker reasonably uncomfortable after all the incidents between cooking and Caboose. Tucker rose on his tip-toes and playfully ruffled up his blonde hair, which made the blue solider retreat with a whine.

"Go sit down lil bro, and maybe wake Wash while you're at it."

"But Tucker… Agent Washingtub is already here!"

Tucker flipped another pancake before the words sunk in. He whirled around to see Washington and Caboose both sitting at the kitchen table. If Wash didn't have his helmet on, Tucker suspected he was smiling.

Does Washington even smile?

"Morning, Private Tucker." His tone had a subtle smile in it, answering Tuckers internal question. 

"You're kind of freaky, you know that?" Tucker said astonishedly, shaking his head. "You're like a cat."

The eyebrow raise Wash gave Tucker could be felt without seeing his face.

"Well, like, you're quiet as hell!"

"And you hiss." Caboose added in a suspicious tone.

"Wh- W" he stammered, "I do not hiss!" Washington cried.

While the two argued, Tucker let his eyes hover on Wash. He was wearing flannel pajama bottoms, a short sleeved gray shirt, and his helmet.

He had never seen the man in short sleeves, and he suspected the scars marking the majority of his skin was why.

Wash was a little thinner than Tucker expected, and a little smaller-built too. Wash crossed his arms while getting deeper into the argument, and Tucker noticed his biceps were *not* smaller than expected. 

As if Wash was the fun-police and could sense impure thoughts, he turned and glanced at Tucker. Was the look he gave him… knowing? Who knows, because of that stupid fucking helmet. Maybe he was giving Tucker bedroom eyes.

Tucker turned his back on the pair to nurse the pancake he was burning. 

\---

Tucker slid the mountain of pancakes across the table with a smirk, "Alright! Kiss the cook!"

He was greeted with a shrill whine from Caboose, "I do not want to kiss Tucker!" and awkward silence from Washington.

Tucker settled into his chair with too many pancakes loaded with too much syrup. Caboose had him outmatched however, with a stack that barely fit on his plate. And Wash…

Was chewing a bite of pancake.

And Tucker knew that because finally, the Freelancer had taken his helmet off.

And oh god, he's hot.

His hair was short and blonde, which for some reason surprised Tucker. The second thing he noticed were the large circles under his bright blue eyes, more evidence the man didn't sleep. His face was thinner than he imagined, but still quite nice, especially with the freckles that dotted his cheeks. A scar parted his right eyebrow, and a thin one marked his bottom lip. Why did that make him hotter? 

Those vibrant blue eyes glanced up at him, and with a mouth full of pancake he said, "stop staring."

He pointedly ignored the bit of pancake Wash spat onto the table.

Tucker didn't have the decency to be embarrassed. "You're hotter than I thought" he admitted with a wink.

Washington made a scoffing noise around his pancake, but Tucker felt weirdly giddy when the corners of Washs mouth quirked upwards.

After a pause where only chewing could be heard, Caboose piped in with "I like your face, Washingtub." 

The comment earned Caboose a half-hearted explanation from Wash that his name was *still* not Washingtub. Tucker liked being able to see the mirth in his eyes.

He certainly didn't *look* like he would strangle Tucker in his sleep.

Washington forked a piece of pancake off of Cabooses plate.

Yeah, he would fit in just fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I accidentally lied. More fluffy filler setup.
> 
> NEXT chapter will have the angst. 
> 
> Also "he probably wont strangle me in my sleep" spoiler alert for next chapter Tucker you're fucked and not in the way you want to be


	3. Monsters

A gasp tore from Tuckers throat as a strong grip wrapped around his arm, shaking him awake.

"Wh- what the FUCK!" he cried, lashing out in the darkness, but his limbs swiped at empty air.

"Private Tucker!" someone hissed in the dark shadows of his room.

Instantly his muscles relaxed as he recognized the voice, slumping back against his still-warm mattress.

"What the fuck do you want, Caboose?" Tucker groaned, squeezing his eyes shut. If Caboose was here to tell him about wetting the bed again, Tucker might just kill him.

Cabooses voice was much closer now as he frantically whispered, "I heard you having a bad dream, so I came to wake you up, but then I heard a monster in Agent Washingtubs room, so I came to wake you up even more!"

Tucker sighed loudly, not even hiding his irritation as he clenched his jaw. "I was *not* having a nightmare Caboose. And there's no fucking monster under anyones bed, go to sleep."

There was a heartbeat of silence before Caboose said, "but if you weren't having a bad dream, why were you saying Washingtubs name?"

Tucker wanted to fucking die. "Listen dude, just fuc-"

Tucker felt the words die in his throat as a horrible, eerie noise faintly filled the room. 

Caboose flailed his hands anxiously, eyes wide as he gave Tucker a meaningful look. Tucker nodded, and quietly clambered out of bed.

He tip toed to his still ajar door, half hoping he was imagining it, when the sound echoed through the base again. It almost sounded like… moaning. And not the good kind of moaning.

He glanced between his armor that was scattered across the floor, and Caboose, who's eyes were filling with tears. 

As irritated as he had been with the man a few moments ago, he hated to see the guy cry. Caboose was like his little brother.

Deciding there wasn't time to get armor on, or any clothes other than the blue boxers he was wearing, he grabbed his sword and released it. 

The soft blue light filled the room and spilled into the hallway as the sound continued, along with a faint thud. Tucker shot Caboose a glance and mouthed the words, "stay here."

Tucker crept out, the glow from his sword casting long and eerie shadows down the hallway. He flinched as a scream tore from Washingtons room.

His bare feet slipped across the floor as he raced down the hallway and jerked open Washs door, he clumsily skidded to a stop just inside the room.

Tuckers wide eyes darted around the room, the only movement coming from the bunk. 

The Freelancer was thrashing against his bunk, his mouth agape as he gasped for air. The sheets underneath him were drenched with sweat, and his hair was slick against his forehead. 

The pulsing light from Tuckers sword made the circles under Washes eyes stand out, and made his already pale skin look almost translucent.

Tucker let his sword clatter to the floor as he stepped to hover over the bunk. "Hey, man…" he breathed, cautiously extending his hand. Was this a nightmare? A panic attack? A seizure? 

Whatever it was, it certainly wasn't right.

He gently gripped the mans shoulders, whispering out into the cold room, "Hey man. It's okay, it's all okay." 

His skin felt cold under Tuckers fingers. His eyes trailed down across Washs body, he was only in black boxers. Tucker felt a weird sadness seeing how scarred the mans body was.

Tucker squeezed Washs shoulder comfortingly. "Hey Wash, buddy, yo-"

Pain screamed through his chest as something sent him sailing backwards, his back connecting hard against the wall. He slid down onto his knees, gasping as the air left him.

Before he could even fill his lungs, a strong grip lifted him by his neck and smashed him against the cold stone wall. 

Lights flickered in Tuckers vision, and when they cleared, he could see his own fingers desperately clawing at the hand around his throat. His shocked, round eyes glanced up to meet his attacker.

His attacker met his gaze with cold, unfocused eyes.

"W… wa...sh…" Tucker gasped, prying at Washs fingers. The grip tightened and Tucker coughed violently without meaning to.

His lungs screamed as he spluttered and gasped, his brain panicking as each desperate breath brought little relief. He thrashed violently against Wash, kicking out at his legs, but Wash didn't even flinch at the harsh impact of flesh against flesh.

He tried to gasp "please, Wash," but all that came out was a desperate gasp. His entire body started to shudder, Tucker quickly stopped thrashing. 

A horrible buzzing filled his head as the room spun and the fingers tightened against his throat. Tucker stared into the Freelancers unfocused blue eyes, and hot tears started to slip down his cheeks. 

In a split second, he thought about Caboose, curled up in Tuckers room, waiting and afraid. He was never going to see him again. He was never going to pretend he hated Grif and Simmons again.

A sob wracked his chest, sounding muffled and odd as he couldn't exhale. His vision swam, becoming one blue blur. 

A bitter sadness smashed against his heart as the memories of the past month with Wash came flooding in. Stealing the Red flag, over and over. Having a water balloon fight between the three Blues. Waking up to find Wash passed out on the kitchen table, and making a strong cup of coffee for him. Talking with Wash about his son, and how after all this shit was over, he was going to be a great dad.

He was never going to see his son again.

A strangled scream tore through his throat as he gave one more violent attempt, but the blue in his vision was quickly fading to black.

He didn't feel his body go limp and crash against the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't fret, he isn't dead. I wouldn't be able to write more angst if he was dead.
> 
> However... this is almost as far as I planned out, and I'm not sure where this fiction will end. Shoot any ideas in the comments


	4. Blood and guts and feelings and shit

Blood gurgled in his throat as Tucker took a deep breath, which made his ribs scream in protest. The room spun as he lay sprawled on the floor - where was he?

The floor under him was hard and bitterly cold, offering no comfort as he curled against it.

Tucker shamelessly whimpered in pain as he rolled onto his stomach and forearms, blinking blood out of his eyes. He was suddenly aware of the sound of uneven breathing, and drowsily turned his head to see -

“...Wash.” Tucker breathed. Wash was crawling backwards away from him, mouth agape, and horror in his eyes. Tucker reached out pathetically, desperately, towards him.

Everything hurt. Breathing hurt. His head howled and pulsed with pain. His fingers that were stretched out before him shuddered violently. Wash took another horrible, gasping breath, and suddenly...

Reality crashed into Tucker.

“Fuck you!” He screamed despite the blood splattering from his mouth and onto the cold concrete floor. He staggered to his feet, balling his fists protectively in front of him. 

Wash jumped to his feet from the shadows, his expression turning from complete horror to the calm, monotonous look he often wore. 

“Stay the fuck back!” Tucker screeched, the heels of his feet slipping in his own blood as he staggered backward.

“Please, Tucker, calm down.” Wash whispered. He sounded almost… normal… except for the thickness in his voice.

“Calm down?” Tucker cried, his balled fists shuddering as he subtly backed up towards his sword. “You just tried to fucking kill me, you fucker!” 

The calmness on Washes face broke for just a moment, his blue eyes giving away far too much of how he felt. Tucker glared back, stubbornly refusing to let his heart give in to the mixed look of despair and worry Wash had given him. 

“Tucker, please, let me hel-”

Tucker lunged for his sword, but Wash was faster. Washes body weight sent them both skidding across the floor as Wash held Tuckers wrist with one hand, and pried at the swords hilt with the other. 

The two men rolled and hit the wall, rocking backwards in their struggle. They wrestled desperately for a moment, Tucker grit his teeth and slammed his knee against Washingtons hip. He hissed in pain, but didn’t relent as he pulled on the swords hilt. Sweat was making Tuckers grip slip on the hilt, he used his free hand to claw at Washes arm, trying to tear him away. Another roll sent Tucker onto his back, and Washington yanked the sword from Tuckers grasp.

Tears flowed freely down Tuckers face, mixing with the blood from his nose. Wash threw the sword to the other side of the room. Wash was straddling him now, and it was really fucking gay. “Fuck you!” He screamed again, wriggling strongly under the freelancer, who didn’t budge. He furiously used his free hand to wipe his tears away.

Wash rolled off him and onto his knees - Tucker crawled backwards, shooting glares of absolute hatred at him. Wash was just staring at him, his mouth thin, his eyes full of worry. How dare he. How dare he fucking look at him that way.

Tucker took a few shuddering breaths, winded after the scuffle, but started to cough violently. He rolled once again onto his forearms and knees, pointedly facing away from Wash so he wouldn’t see the tears, snot, and blood dripping off his nose.

Each breath felt like inhaling whiskey, and every cough brought chunks of blood into his mouth, which he openly spat onto Washes floor as an extra *fuck you.* A shuddering but warm hand gingerly rested on his heaving back - but Tucker couldn’t stop coughing to tell Wash to stop fucking touching him. Don’t touch him so gently after breaking his fucking nose. Don’t act so concerned after choking him out. Fuck. You.

As his breathing slowly evened out and he stopped coughing, he let his aching forehead press against the cold concrete as he shut his eyes tightly. He was too aware of how warm Washes hand felt. Too aware that Wash kept sniffling. Tucker didn’t care. Tucker didn’t care about any of it.

“L-let’s…” Wash stammered, then cleared his throat and began in his normal authoritative voice - “Let’s go get you cleaned up.”

Tucker didn’t move.

“Why the fuck do you care?” He spat in a dangerous tone, not bothering to open his eyes.

The room went silent for far too long, and Tuckers stomach dropped as Wash spoke.

“I’m so fucking sorry, Tucker” he breathed, his voice shaking from suppressed sobs. Tucker opened his eyes to stare at the floor, wide-eyed.

“I… I can’t stop myself, sometimes. You don’t understand what being a freelancer was like.”  
Tucker felt the fire bubble back inside him, there was no fucking excuse.

“The things they did to me…” Wash paused for so long that Tucker thought he had finished speaking. “No person should ever fucking go through that.”

Tucker slowly pushed himself up into a sitting position, the room was dark without his swords glow, all he could see was Washingtons frame backlit by the hallway light.

“And I am so fucking sorry” he whispered again, voice hoarse. “Im so sorry.”

Tucker used the wall to push himself to his feet, Wash stayed sitting on his legs, head bowed.

He staggered out of the room, clutching his aching ribs, and slammed the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got plans for at least two more chapters. Y'all are getting spoiled.
> 
> Sorry I have no grasp on English grammar by the way.


	5. Chapter 5

Tuckers knuckles were stark white from how hard he gripped the lip of the sink. His nosebleed had slowed to a stop, but his heartbeat hadn't. Neither had the movement of the room that swayed back and forth under his feet.

He shut his eyes and leaned his forehead against the mirror, trying to push back the horrible swaying feeling.

When he opened his eyes, he hissed at his own reflection. His nose wasn't broken, but some blood vessels were, resulting in thick black bruises spreading across the bridge of his nose. 

He knew he needed to do something about his injuries, but he couldn't think of what. It felt like his thoughts were getting stuck in thick sludge. 

He blinked up at the ceiling, it was such an ugly, peeling shade of blue. The floor under him was cracked white tile, and horribly cold.

When did he get on the floor?

He whimpered despite himself and inched backwards until his back was pressing against the cold ceramic of the bathtub. He was shaking. He didn't feel cold. He wanted to fucking throw up.

He focused on the lovely contrast between his brown skin and the white tile as his mind wandered.

He thought back to Washingtons unfocused, merciless gaze and felt his stomach flip.

But he couldn't get the mental picture of Washs blue eyes, brimming with unshed tears, looking at him with more than concern. 

The tension bled from his body as his stubbornness faded. As much as he didn't fucking want to, he didn't have much hostility against Wash anymore. He should have known better than to grab Wash in the middle of a nightmare. It wasn't like Tucker was clueless to the Freelancers PTSD.

Then again, he was being a little quick to forgive, seeing as he was about to pass out on the bathroom floor.

He felt high. He felt lightheaded in the best way, though his head fucking hurt. And so did his ribs. And his nose. 

Alright, he was still a little pissed after all.

A knock at the bathroom door jolted him out of his thoughts, "Tucker?" A soft voice called out.

Tucker was sure speaking would drain what little energy remained, but he forced himself, for Cabooses sake.

"Its all good man!" Tucker chimed, his cheery tone was so clearly pained and weak, but Tucker knew Caboose wouldn't notice. 

Caboose murmured something, Tucker was too busy watching the floor tilting to notice. Eventually footsteps led away, and a door quietly shut down the hall.

It seemed as fast as silence filled the cramped bathroom, it was broken again. Another gentle knock at the door.

Tucker found this time, he couldn't bring himself to speak. 

"Hey, Tucker?" 

His stomach flipped horribly, like it did whenever Wash laughed. Or smiled. But this time, his heart started to beat faster, and not for the reason it did before.

He waited too long to repond, and Wash spoke again in a whisper. "Please, let me help."

Tucker simply closed his eyes. He couldn't get up to open the door if he wanted to. Wash would get the message and fuck off eventually. 

"I'm coming in… so if you're indecent… don't be."

Tucker wished he had the energy to talk, he had a good joke for that one.

A soft click gave Tucker some warning before Wash was on his knees beside him, warm fingers pressing against the pulse in his wrist. Tucker shuddered against the feeling.

"Okay," Wash breathed. His monotone voice was nice, in a way. Soft. "You're going to be okay, Tucker."

Tucker moaned in protest as a cold, damp washcloth pressed against his nose. Wash worked quietly, dabbing the blood off his face, and nursing Tuckers bruises and puffy eyes with cold water.

"I'm so sorry."

"mmsorry" Tucker slurred.

"Hey, hey, you're okay. Everythings okay. Just rest." Wash whispered. Tucker felt a strong urge to just curl up and be nursed by Wash forever.

His mind changed very suddenly as Washington hoisted him into a sitting position, making the world spin dangerously again. A whine tore through his throat, Wash placed a warm hand on his back in response.

Tucker couldn’t care anymore. He didn't care what Wash thought, Tucker knew what his body desperately needed, and he sure as hell wasn't going to fight it.

He let his body go slack and press against Wash so that Tucker was about on his lap. Wash shifted and wrapped his arms around Tuckers torso, Washs breath warmed Tuckers neck and ear.

Tucker would have fucking cried in happiness, if he wasn't dehydrated as fuck.

Washs hands trembled as they rested on Tuckers arms, Tucker pressed closer against Wash. It was okay. Tucker was okay. He wished he could bring himself to say it outloud, but Wash seemed to understand because his stiffness started to bleed out of him.

The subtle rise and fall of Washingtons chest along with how warm the man was slowly lulled Tuckers thoughts away. He wanted to ponder if he was still angry, if Wash felt cuddling a dude was super weird, if Wash even liked him the way Tucker did, but the world was darkening around him, promising a painless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might be the end chapter, not entirely sure but Im okay with ending it here 👀

**Author's Note:**

> I'm pretty shy with my writing, so if you enjoy this, please leave a comment.
> 
> This is just starting it off, the angst will be next chapter.


End file.
